


Habitual Prologue

by plingo_kat



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:57:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I wonder if this counts as sexual harassment,” Q says as Bond worms one hand under his layers: undershirt, dress shirt, cardigan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Habitual Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So mai is an enabling enabler, as evidenced the prompt she gave me: "Q being fucked or doing the fucking with his cardigan and hipster glasses on."
> 
>  
> 
> plingokat @ twitter

“Are you serious?” Q hisses. He goes willingly enough when Bond presses him face first into the wall, but only because he knows his limitations. Bond wouldn’t hurt him, not for this. Besides, trying to get out of any double-oh ‘s hold is beyond Q’s capabilities, let alone 007.

“Very serious,” Bond murmurs in his ear. His breath ghosts across Q’s cheek, makes him shiver.

“I wonder if this counts as sexual harassment,” Q says as Bond worms one hand under his layers: undershirt, dress shirt, cardigan.

“Are you feeling harassed?”

Q jerks as Bond nuzzles his neck, stubble scratching.

“Very,” he replies dryly, although his composure is ruined a bit by the way his voice goes breathless at the end of the word.

“Mm.” Q is _almost_ distracted from Bond’s erection pressing into his backside by the scrape of teeth along his jaw, the wet flicker of tongue. 

“Really, 007? In the HQ?”

“I’m bored,” is the only reason Bond gives. Q rolls his eyes. Typical.

“Field agents,” he complains, rocking back onto his heels. Bond makes a satisfied noise and presses them together in reaction. Q is responding already, warmth along his back and the smell of clean sweat and hot metal triggering some truly problematic automatic impulses.

There’s a thought. “Are you _conditioning_ me?” he asks suspiciously. He tests Bond’s grip on his wrists, locked together behind his back, secure enough to make his elbow twinge when he moves.

“To do what?” Bond understands what he’s getting at, he’s just playing dumb.

“Never mind,” Q concedes. He wriggles a little, impatient. “If you’re going to do this, get on with it. Some of us have work to do.”

“Feel free to leave if I’m keeping you.” Bond lets his hands go and Q turns to face him, the wool of his cardigan scraping along the expensive material of Bond’s suit.

Q licks his lips, watching the way Bond’s eyes dip downwards. “Since I’m already here…”

Bond’s smirk is contained almost entirely in his eyes, only the barest quirk of lips to hint at his amusement. “I’ll try not to disappoint you,” he says, and leans in.

The kiss starts out hard and gets harder, a press of lips that merges into a mess of teeth and tongue and harsh breaths through their noses as Q opens his mouth. Bond closes his eyes when he kisses, a little furrow between his brows. Q keeps his own eyes open as long as he can, but they go half-lidded and he stops paying attention around the time his glasses start to fog up.

Bond’s hand smoothing along the back of his slacks isn’t precisely a _surprise_ , but Q makes a muffled noise anyway. Bond retaliates with a nip. His other hand slides up Q’s chest, rucking up his clothing.

“Hey!” Q pulls away. He’s already a lost cause in the dress code department, he doesn’t need Bond ruining the little neatness he’s managed to maintain. 

“Your clothing is hopeless,” Bond says, echoing his thoughts. The other man looks distressingly composed, a stark contrast to how Q must be, disheveled hair and swollen lips, wrinkled clothing and crooked glasses. “I can hardly make it any worse.”

“If you could at least _try_ to be careful,” Q suggests with a glare. Bond shrugs, a smooth roll of his shoulders that somehow ends up with his suit jacket off and tossed onto the back of a chair. Bastard.

Bond hums into his mouth. Q still has enough of his faculties to unbuckle Bond’s belt with a minimum of fumbling, although he does brush his knuckles over the bulge in Bond’s trousers more times than is strictly necessary. Bond moves over to Q’s neck – Q tilts his head to allow him more room to work – and sucks gently on the skin there in retaliation.

“Don’t you dare leave a hickey,” Q says, voice husky. “I’ve got – nn – got to go back to work after this.”

“Take your tie off,” Bond mutters into his skin. The man is impressively single-minded.

“Take your shirt off,” Q counteroffers, already getting started on the buttons. Bond huffs a laugh and takes a step back so that there’s enough room for both of them to see what they’re doing. A finger under his chin tips Q’s head back, strong fingers working at the cloth around his throat. Q undoes the rest of Bond’s shirt by touch.

Smooth skin under his hands, a faint smattering of hair and the even fainter hints of scars. Bond is appallingly attractive, sharply charismatic and physically fit. His biceps alone are mesmerizing; Q has been distracted by them more times than he would like to admit.

“You’re getting behind,” Bond says. Q can feel his voice vibrate in his chest, the rise and fall of his ribs as he breathes.

“Ask me if I care,” Q says, and pulls him in.

Bond slides his tie off right before their mouths meet, dropping it to no doubt crumple irreparably on the floor by their feet. Q doesn’t care – he’s too busy palming up the corded muscled of Bond’s back, fitting his hand around a jutting shoulder blade and slotting their hips together.

“No belt again?”

Q doesn’t answer in anything but a hiss at the wet touch of Bond’s tongue by his ear. He grunts as his back hits the wall, held upright by the press of Bond’s body.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he says as Bond kneels with liquid grace, the smirk on his face fully realized this time. “You—“

“Language, Q,” Bond says, and grips Q’s hips with strong hands. “Stay still for a bit, there’s a good boy.”

“I will rig your gun to explode in the field,” Q promises.

Bond only undoes Q’s fly in response, hooking his fingers into the waistband of his pants and easing them down. Cool air on his cock does nothing to dampen Q’s arousal as Bond wraps one large hand around him.

“Stop being a godsdamned tease,” Q says as Bond pumps him slowly once, twice. His other arm is braced across Q’s hips, pinning him to the wall.

“Say please,” Bond says, and darts his tongue out to lick at the head of Q’s cock.

The jerk of Q’s hips meets Bond’s unmoving forearm. “Fuck you,” he repeats, fingers pressing into the skin of Bond’s shoulders.

“I have nowhere to be,” Bond says mildly.

Q does have to go back to work, he thinks. And Bond is intractable on the best of days; he’s not going to change his mind about this.

“… _Please_ ,” Q grits out, and then nearly shouts as Bond takes him unexpectedly into his mouth, one fast glide so that Bond’s lips are kissing his fist.

Bond’s reputation is entirely deserved. He has Q’s thighs trembling in no time at all, hot suction and agile tongue making sweat stand out on Q’s forehead, on the small of his back and his shoulders where he’s pressed against the wall.

“Please,” Q says again, and this time it comes out easily, honestly. He curves his hand around the back of Bond’s skull, feeling short hair prickle his palm.

Bond _hums_ , taking him deeper, and Q squeezes the muscles at the base of Bond’s skull in warning just before he comes.

Bond sucks him until he’s spent, swallowing, each pull of his mouth and movement of his throat prolonging Q’s pleasure, stretching it out until in the end he’s pushing weakly at Bond’s forehead to get him to let go.

Q is still hunched over Bond and gasping when his legs are able to hold him again, and he shifts his weight back to take the strain off Bond’s shoulders.

“Shut up,” he mutters in response to Bond’s smug expression. He can clearly see the bulge in Bond’s trousers, which must be uncomfortable. (He also notes the redness of Bond’s mouth, his blown pupils, the slick shine of spit over his chin and saves the image for another day.) “C’mon, get over here.”

Bond stands. “You don’t want to get your clothes dirty, do you?” he rasps as Q undoes his fly – nothing underneath his slacks but skin. The vee of his open waistband frames Q’s hand, skin pale against the flush of Bond’s cock.

“If you want me to suck you, just ask,” Q says, but he goes to his knees without any other words of complaint. When he moves to take of his glasses Bond stops him.

“Leave them on,” he says and Q bites his lip in order to remember the look on his face, lust and something close to tenderness.

“Right.” The glasses make things a little awkward, pressing into his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, sliding down his face when he pulls back. He keeps his eyes closed and doesn’t mind; Bond is hot and salty-bitter on his tongue, opening him up beautifully. His scalp prickles when Bond buries a hand in his hair, but as long as he doesn’t pull Q won’t stop, and he encourages Q to keep a rhythm that might be hard to maintain on his own.

Q is starting to zone out, the scent of sex and the drag on his lips and the ache in his jaw and the repetitive movement of his head lulling him into a meditative state of concentration, when Bond makes his first noise. It’s soft – Q almost misses it under his heartbeat pounding in his ears, but Bond makes a gravelly sound low in his throat as Q sucks, so Q sucks harder. He rubs the flat of his tongue along the flesh in his mouth and takes Bond deeper, until the head hits the back of his throat and he has to suppress his gag reflex. This time Bond moans aloud.

It’s addicting. The power to take Bond apart is in Q’s hands – or mouth, as the case may be – and he has no qualms about using it. A hint of teeth makes Bond gasp; humming makes him clench his hand in Q’s hair. 

_”Q,”_ Bond groans when he comes, and Q swallows, and sucks, and swallows.

He sits down on his haunches afterwards, licking his lips. Bond is slumped against the wall, head tilted back, the shine of sweat on his throat and chest. He looks like the foldout of a high-class porn magazine.

One blue eye opens to watch him lazily. “I thought you said you had work to do.” His voice is a little hoarse, a lot sexy. Q is too tired to react but he almost wishes he could.

“Right.” Q clears his throat. Unfairly, he just sounds like he has a cold.

Bond holds out a hand. Q takes it and allows himself to be pulled upright before looking down at himself: slacks still open and around his thighs, shirt askew under his cardigan, collar mangled and tieless.

“I’m going to need a mirror for this.”

Bond motions him closer. Q ducks down and picks up his tie before he allows Bond to turn him this way and that, to run hands over his body to smooth out wrinkles, to tug and twitch articles of clothing into their proper places. The last thing Bond does is adjust his glasses with a surprisingly delicate touch, settling them properly on Q’s face.

“Your hair is a lost cause,” he says, voice heavy with amusement. Q runs his hand through his curls, wincing as they snag on tangles.

“Well,” he says. “I’m sure I’ve looked worse.”

“Undoubtedly,” Bond says. His lips twitch. He looks satiated and smug and self-satisfied, and Q wants to stay and blow him again, or perhaps take him back to his flat where they can fuck each other into the mattress. Instead he runs his hand through his hair again before leaning in for one last kiss.

“Go _home_ , Bond,” he says after he pulls away. “Get some sleep. I’m sure London will survive another day without you.”

“I could say the same to you.” Q has already turned his back by the time Bond speaks, but he looks over his shoulder before he exits the room.

“That’s what coffee is for,” he retorts.

He catches a glimpse of himself in a window on the way back to Q-section. His mouth is red and swollen, hair a rat’s nest, clothing rumpled – in short, he looks like he’s been thoroughly fucked.

Damn.

**Author's Note:**

> Written throughout a graveyard shift, so if things don't quite make sense that's probably why. Oh sleep, how I long for thee.


End file.
